by Candace Camp
As Abby took a step down, she felt a sudden shove in the small of her back. She staggered, grabbing frantically at the railing. Though she managed to get her hand around the wooden banister, she feared her momentum would have carried her forward had someone not caught hold of her arm and kept her upright.
Abby clutched the railing. Terror iced her insides as she thought of what could have happened. She turned shakily toward her rescuer. A blond woman had both hands around Abby’s arm and was gazing at her with concern.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” The truth was, Abby was trembling. What if she had fallen? She could have lost the child, and that thought filled her with terror.
“You look a little pale,” the other woman said, taking Abby’s arm and guiding her back up the staircase, easing around the women behind them. “Perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”
“Yes, perhaps I should.” Her rescuer glanced toward the crowded cloakroom, then steered Abby down the hall to an alcove.
There was a plush window seat below the bay window, and Abby sat down on it gratefully. It was quiet here and somewhat shielded from the hall by the heavy draperies hanging on either side of the alcove. Her companion sat down beside her, watching her carefully.
“Better?”
Abby gave her a small smile. “Yes, thank you, it’s very kind of you to help me. I’m sorry to be so clumsy.”
“What happened?”
“I think someone stumbled into me from behind, and I started to fall. Fortunately you were there and I was able to grab the rail.” But it hadn’t felt as if someone had lurched into her; it had felt like a push against her back. As it had that time beside the river. But no, that was absurd.
“How rude. They didn’t even stop to see if you were all right.”
“No. Perhaps they didn’t realize.”
“Oh, dear, you’ve torn loose a ruffle on your skirt.”
Abby followed her companion’s gaze and saw that several inches of ruffle had indeed ripped away and was trailing across the floor. “Perhaps I can find some pins.”
“Don’t worry.” The blonde opened the reticule dangling from her wrist. “I always carry a little sewing kit with me for emergencies.”
“You’re very prepared.”
The woman laughed. “I fear it’s more that I am clumsy and quite accustomed to tearing a ruffle or losing a button.” Pulling out a small, slim case, she popped it open and extracted a needle and thread.
“How cunning!” Abby leaned forward to examine the compartmented case, where a thimble, two needles, miniature scissors, and a small roll of dark thread were all neatly tucked away.
“Do you like it? I fashioned it myself from a tin of lozenges. It comes in quite handy.” She threaded one of the needles. “I’m afraid I’ve only black thread, but at least it will keep your ruffle off the floor. It would be a shame to tear it further. It’s such a lovely dress.”
Nimbly, she knelt down in front of Abby and began to tack the ruffle back in place.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Abby watched her newfound friend work, intrigued.
She was slender and small-boned, and though not short, she had a delicate appearance. Her hair was a pale blond mingled with gold and arranged in a tidy knot at the crown of her head. There were women on whom it would have looked severe, but on her it simply revealed to full effect her soft oval face and large expressive blue eyes.
Her gown was simple, even plain, but the sky-blue color favored her classic English coloring and strawberries-and-cream complexion. More friendly and straightforward than most women Abby was accustomed to meeting here, she seemed the sort of woman Abby would like to know.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” Abby smiled. “I am Abigail Parr.”
The woman’s head snapped up. “Lady Montclair.”
“One of them, anyway.”
The other woman stared at her in silence, then hastily said, “Oh. I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to stare. I am, um, Laura Hinsdale.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Hinsdale,” Abby said lightly. “Obviously you’ve heard about ‘the mad American.’ ”
“What? Oh.” Laura Hinsdale’s telltale pale skin could not hide the blush that rose in her cheeks. “No, no, indeed, I haven’t heard anything about you. I am not usually in London; I’m visiting one of my cousins for a few weeks.” She bent over the ruffle again, her fingers moving swiftly and surely. “I, ah, am acquainted with the Parr family.”
“Are you? That’s splendid. You know my husband?”
“Yes. That is, somewhat.”
“We shall have to find him when you are done. I am sure he would be pleased to see you again.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” She finished the stitch and snipped off the thread. “There. All done. I should look for my cousin. No doubt she is wondering where I’ve gotten to.”
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Abby!” Graeme came into view and stopped. “Ah, there you are. What are you—”
At the sound of his voice, Laura sucked in her breath in a sharp hiss and whirled around. Graeme stopped midsentence. The color drained from his face.
“Laura,” he said at last, staring at Abigail’s companion. “I . . . I . . .”
Suddenly Abby knew: this was the woman her husband loved. The pretty, helpful Miss Hinsdale, the woman Abby had liked on sight, was the woman Graeme had wanted to marry, the one with whom he had been eager to share his life. And she realized, with a hard, swift stab of pain, that she had been building her life on quicksand.
Breaking the tableau, Abby jumped to her feet and fled from the alcove. She heard Graeme’s voice behind her, calling her name, but she didn’t stop, didn’t even pause. She slipped past the clot of women at the doorway of the cloakroom, and, remembering the second door at the other end of the long, narrow room, she hurried through it and emerged into a side corridor.
She didn’t bother to grab her cloak along the way. Her only thought was to get away, to be alone, where there was no one to see her, no one to hear her. Away from Graeme and the pain of seeing that expression on his face.
Abby walked quickly, head down, and took the back staircase to the ground floor. Emerging in the hallway outside the kitchen, she startled a footman carrying out a tray of food. He began to spout apologies, but Abby waved them away.
“Is there another door out? A tradesman’s door?”
He nodded, puzzled. “Yes, miss, in the kitchen, but—”
“Thank you.” She cut him off and hurried through the door he had just exited. She passed through the kitchen, and though everyone in it stopped what they were doing and stared at her, none moved to stop her. Outside, she found herself in a narrow walkway running down the length of the house.
It was chilly without a wrap, but Abby barely registered the discomfort. She ran to the street and looked up and down, finally spotting the Parr carriage. With relief, she gathered up her skirts and ran to it. The coachman, gossiping with the other drivers, gaped at her, then rushed forward.
“My lady! Is aught the matter? Where is Lord Montclair?” He glanced around.
“He’s still inside. I want to go home. I’m, ah, not feeling well.”
“Of course, my lady, of course.” He hustled over to open the door for her and help her inside. Then, with a last puzzled glance toward the house, he picked up the weight holding the horses and climbed up onto his high seat.
The carriage rumbled off, and Abby fell back against the seat. She realized now that she was shivering, and her heart was racing along as rapidly as her breathing. She felt utterly scattered and jumpy—scared—and her cheeks were wet with tears she had not even known she was crying. She struggled to compose herself. The driver had probably decided she was a trifle strange; she didn’t want to run through the house like a madwoman, alarming all the servants.
By the time they pulled up in front of Montclair House, Abby had wip
ed her cheeks dry, tucked away the flying bits of her hair, and pulled her face into some semblance of calm. Stepping down from the carriage, she said, “Please return to the party. Lord Montclair and the dowager countess will need the carriage later.”
He tugged at his cap and left without protest. When she opened the door and walked inside, she gave a regal nod to the footman, who had jumped up from the entry bench in surprise. She managed to make it all the way up the stairs before the tears began to leak from her eyes again. How could she be so supremely happy one moment, and only minutes later feel her world collapse around her?
Running down the hall into her bedroom, she yanked at the bell pull. She was desperate to get out of these clothes and into bed, to drag the covers up over her head and cry her heart out. She didn’t want to see anyone; she would not have rung for Molly if she had been able to get out of the multitude of fastenings down the back of her dress by herself.
The last person she wanted to see was Graeme. She could not bear it. She didn’t consider why, at the same time, it made her heart squeeze with pain to think he might not pursue her. She started to lock the door but realized that Molly would need to get in. She crossed to the connecting door to Graeme’s room and turned the key in the lock.
Sitting down before the vanity, Abby pulled the pins from her hair, her fingers clumsy and trembling. She had to stop now and then to wipe the tears from her cheeks—she refused to break down in sobs, but she could not keep the tears from seeping from her eyes.
The door opened, and she whipped around, thinking, Graeme. But it was, of course, her maid. And suddenly she could not hold back any longer; she began to cry in earnest.
“Miss Abby!” Molly ran to her and enfolded Abby in her arms. “What happened? It’s him, isn’t it? And I’d begun to hope he’d—och, I might have known.” Molly’s eyes flashed.
“No.” Abby gulped, doing her best to rein in her sobs. “It isn’t him. It’s just . . . oh, Molly!” She jumped up, unable to sit still a moment longer, and began to pace aimlessly about the room. “I saw her tonight.”
“Who? Who did you see?” Molly followed her.
“Laura Hinsdale.”
“Who?”
“The woman he loves.” Abby swallowed hard. “I didn’t know her name, you see. I knew he loved another woman, but I had no idea who she was. It was easier, not being able to put a name or a face to her. But tonight I met her. She told me her name; she must have thought me a fool when I didn’t recognize it. But then . . .” Her breath hitched. “Then he came in and saw her, saw us chatting together—and oh, the look on his face! I knew then. It was she.” She began to cry again.
“Here, now, it’ll be all right.” Molly slipped her arm around Abby and steered her back to the stool in front of the vanity. “We’ll get you out of these clothes and brush out your hair, and I’ll fetch you your cup of hot chocolate. Then you’ll feel better.”
“I won’t. Oh, Molly, you’ve no idea what she was like.”
Molly snorted. “I can make a good guess. All snooty and refined.” She raised her nose in the air, making a sour face. “Pale as death—blond hair and empty blue eyes.”
Abby let out a watery chuckle. “No, no. That is what I had assumed, too. I thought if I ever met her, she would be horrid and insipid or snobbish or maybe all those things.” She sighed. “But that wasn’t how she is at all. The fact is, I liked her. She’s pleasant and friendly and kind, not at all the sort who looks down her nose at you. I almost fell, and she grabbed my arm to help me.”
“You fell!” Molly frowned. “How did that happen?”
“I stumbled on the stairs. I managed to catch the railing, and Miss Hinsdale was there and kept me upright. That isn’t what’s important. The important thing is, she was nice. And she’s lovely. She is blond and blue-eyed, though her eyes aren’t empty at all, and she has that wonderful English skin, all pink and white like a porcelain doll.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t have a thing over you,” Molly said stoutly. “You’re a beauty, and you know it. There are always men hanging about, trying to get your attention.”
“I think it’s more the allure of my pocketbook than my face,” Abby said drily.
“Anyone who doesn’t see the worth in you deserves a good knock on his head, and that includes his lordship.” Molly had finished unpinning and brushing out Abby’s hair, and now she started on the row of hooks and eyes down the back of the gown. “If he’s been dangling after this woman with you at home waiting for him—”
“No,” Abby cut her off. “Graeme isn’t having an affair with her. I am sure of that.” Her mouth twisted. “He told me so himself. He assured me he would never dishonor Miss Hinsdale that way.”
Molly mumbled darkly to herself. Abby suspected it was just as well she couldn’t understand what her loyal maid said.
“I’m not worried about him being unfaithful to me, not in that way. Graeme is a gentleman, not just in birth but in his actions, as well. But in his heart, he loves another. I fear he always will. Oh, Molly, I was so foolish. I know you tried to warn me, and I wouldn’t listen. I told myself I could remain aloof and . . . and be happy with what I could have.”
“Och . . . the man’s a stubborn fool, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Perhaps he is.” Abby’s lips curved up. “At least a bit. I prefer to think that he’s steadfast. Loyal.”
“Blind.”
“No, sadly, I think he sees quite clearly. He—I think he finds me pleasing enough.”
“I should think so, given that he’s in your bed every night.”
“But that’s not the same as loving someone. Cherishing her.” And the lovemaking, too, would stop when Abby told him she was with child. Now she was sadly certain of it. His duty would be done, the bargain she had wrung from him paid. “When I saw Miss Hinsdale tonight . . . when Graeme said, ‘Laura!’ in that way, so shocked and . . . and appalled, I saw how hopeless it was.” Unable to sit still, Abby jumped to her feet and began to pace. “She is nothing like me, Molly, not in any way. Her coloring is the very opposite of mine, and she is slender and delicate, like a sylph.”
“Well, I don’t know what that sylph thing is, but she couldn’t be prettier than you.”
“It’s not just in looks, either. She is so . . . so English. Well-bred, calm. She was nice and friendly but in a very genteel British way. Exactly the kind of lady that a gentleman would want to marry. I am sure that she would never draw attention to herself by laughing too loudly or talking too freely. No doubt she knows the proper order of precedence for all the titles, as well as their family histories. She would never seat the wrong people next to each other at the table or address someone incorrectly. Most certainly she would not be inappropriate or blunt. Or have to be plucked out of the river.”
Abby stopped, finally running down, and came back to the maid. She turned so Molly could finish unhooking the back of her dress.
“Everything will look better in the morning,” Molly assured her.
“Will it?” Abby was inclined to think it never would. “Graeme is not fickle. He still loves her, and it won’t change. Laura will forever remain a young beauty in his heart and mind. Her hair won’t gray; she won’t wrinkle. She will never have disagreements with him or habits that irritate him. She will always be perfect. How can I hope to turn his love from that image?”
Stepping out of her dress and petticoats, Abby slipped on the nightgown Molly handed her, but shook her head at the Japanese silk dressing gown. She had worn it that first night with Graeme and the sight of it was too painful. Instead, she wrapped a red velvet robe around her.
“I’ll go get you some hot chocolate now,” Molly said, gathering up the clothes from the floor.
“I don’t want any.”
“I’m getting it anyway. Nothing picks up a person’s spirits like chocolate.”
In the distance there was the sound of a door slamming shut and a startled “My lord!” Abby’s head snapped up.
Footsteps pounded up the staircase. She could not move, could not speak, could only stare frozen at the doorway as Graeme rushed into the room.
chapter 24
“Abby!” Graeme stopped abruptly just inside the door. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled. “I—I looked for you all over. I couldn’t find you. I didn’t realize you’d come home.”
“I did.” Abby was proud her voice came out calmly. She wondered why he found it necessary to explain why it had taken him this long to come after her.
He started forward, and Molly stepped between them, arms still full of the bundle of clothes. Graeme halted, startled, then looked at Abby, raising his brows.
“Molly. Please get that hot chocolate for me,” Abby told her maid.
Molly swiveled toward Abby. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Giving Graeme a long, dark look, Molly walked around him and out the door. He watched her go and swung back around to face his wife. “Abby . . .” He paused.
“Did you have a pleasant chat with Miss Hinsdale?” Abby had not meant to bring up the subject, had, indeed, been determined to avoid it, but somehow it slipped out anyway. She feared some of her bitterness had oozed out, as well.
“No, of course not. I didn’t stay to chat; I went looking for you. You might at least have stayed and given me a chance to explain.”
“There’s no need to explain.”
“No? Then why did you take to your heels?” He stopped, visibly reining in his temper, and went on in a quieter voice. “Abby, I’m sorry. I had no idea Laura would be there. She doesn’t live in London; I never dreamed she would be at any party we attended.”
“I know. Miss Hinsdale told me she was only visiting—her cousin, I believe.” There, that sounded much more in control. Not sad, not tearful, not hurt, just matter-of-fact. But then, like a tongue seeking out a sore tooth, she could not keep from touching on the pain. “She is the one, isn’t she? The woman you love.”
“Abby . . .” Graeme’s face was a study in frustration. He crossed his arms. He glanced down. “Yes; she was the woman I—the one I told you about.” He looked back up at her, saying earnestly, “I would not have put you in such an awkward situation. If I had had any idea Laura would be there, I wouldn’t have taken you there.”